Page 82 of Merciless Daddy

“Accurate.”

“Can I say it in Russian?”

“Yes.”

“Can I swear?”

“I assume you will.”

I wrote the rule.

My hand was no longer entirely steady.

Sal saw.

When he asked about discipline, the pen stopped between my fingers.

Sal waited.

I could feel the heat in my face.

“Say what you want,” he said.

His voice had changed.

Not much. It was still measured. Still careful. But there was authority beneath it now, offered rather than imposed.

My body recognized the difference.

“Correction,” I said.

“What kind?”

“Verbal.”

“Gentle?”

“No.”

His eyes darkened.

“Stern,” I said. “I want to know you mean it. I really like to know you mean it.”

“All right. I can do that.”

“And . . .” I looked away.

“And?”

“Other stuff. Corner time.”

The words felt embarrassing. Worse, they made me wet.

I imagined standing where he put me, hands at my sides, forced to stop performing and wait for his attention. His silence behind me. The knowledge that he was not angry. That the rule remained even when I pushed it.

My breath had gone shallow.

Sal’s gaze dropped briefly to my chest.